A Son's Eulogy
by KorrohShipper
Summary: "You have taught me and filled me all sorts of memories and lessons. People from the IRS could steal money from me, a hobo with a gun can rob me, a woman I trust could steal my heart, but of all the possessions I have, the time we had together, they can never take that away from me." A future fic. One shot. Read for the feels. Me no own PJO. Summary no good, just read on, bros.
_**I do not own PJO, HoO, or any other line I took and cited. To René Charles Angélil, you have my respect and adoration. I applaud you for being so strong. And I apologize for being so late, like three months late for this tribute. To René Angélil, may you rest in peace, sir.**_

 _ **This is dedicated to Mikay and SDSoaM. My best bro since first grade and, SDSoaM, is a person**_ _ **—nay. . .a poteto**_ _ **.**_

* * *

"It was a trying night for Annabeth Jackson, and no one could dare say otherwise.

Before she received the phone call from Jason and Piper, the Jackson household was seemingly perfect—the three energetic kids were sound asleep in bed, she had finished the project she was heading and earned praises from her boss, she had a great book to doze off to, a somewhat decent Sci-fi movie from Netflix ( _A rare find, actually_.), a great bottle of Italian wine ( _It was Bardolino, but she told me it tasted like medicine, so I'll doubt that_.), and a great weekend to look forward to ( _We were going to Montauk for the long weekend._ ).

Everything in her life, it seems, was perfect. Every single aspect, actually. She went to Harvard's School of Architecture while her ( _then_ ) boyfriend had attended NYU. As per her plan, Annabeth had graduated as the top of her batch. Percy, although not the magna cum laude, had (s _hockingly_ ) graduated with some noticeable recognition from both peers and professors.

When they reached the age 22, Percy had popped the question. Annabeth had accepted, of course, _obviously_. Children came when they were 23, just a year after their marriage. It was a boy, their first child. Charles Lucas Jackson looked like his father in every aspect—eyes were sparkling green like Percy's signature sea-green eyes, the curly jet-black hair was only a shade lighter than that of his father's, facial feature was all Percy, in general ( _Must be the Poseidon genes, Annabeth had once concluded_.).

Luke, although his father's spitting image, was exactly like his mother. Organized and intelligent, something both his parents took pride in. An honest child, somewhat hard-headed and stubborn, ADHD and slightly dyslexic, and possessive. It was funny, Percy once mused, that when he had first heard the news of a younger sibling, he, quote unquote, " _abhorred_ " ( _Just think of a little cute boy with a lisp, arms crossed, and accompanied with an accusing glare_.) the idea. But looking at them now, he wouldn't even let a fly land on his younger brother, because like his father, he is far too protective of the people he loves.

William Arthur, their second and youngest son, was born 7 years after Luke was born. The name was purely Annabeth's idea. She saw the name fit, seeing that her second child was conceived during a trip to London with her husband. She had ( _once_ _again_ ) became fascinated with the English Royal family, a phase she had left when she was 13, during her pregnancy and mostly because of her fondness of Prince William, the one idea he did not truly welcomed, though entirely had no say in the cause.

Will had his mother's golden blonde hair, yet it was a messy mop of hair. Like his father's hair, it was purely untamable. Intelligent like both his mother and brother, messy and unorganized like his father, he has grey calculating eyes like his mother, and a budding Beatles fan like his proud, _very_ proud father ( _Although it gave her headaches, his off-key singing_ _—_ _because even she has to admit that singing isn't Athena nor Poseidon's stronghold_ _—_ _changing 'Jude' in "Hey Jude" to Luke whenever his brother is hurt or crying melts her heart away_.), something Percy encourages.

Hey, even Annabeth couldn't deny loving Percy's singing voice ( _Sally's, purely Sally's contribution_.) and guitar playing, serenading her with a classic Beatles, or ( _For special occasions, she remembers fondly_.), an Elvis tune to ease her stormy thoughts.

Charlotte Elizabeth, William's younger twin sister, third and youngest child _and_ the only daughter, was not exempted from the British wave of names. Nor was she an exemption from her mother's wavy golden hair, soft facial features, platinum grey eyes, and Athenian brain. You could say that she was all-Annabeth and Percy simply adored her ( _It should be illegal, a child having so much power over grown men and gods—she's got them tied around her little finger!_ ). It was no secret to world or to anyone who knew Percy, the fact that he wanted to have a daughter.

Sure, he loved all his children equally, but to have the daughter he longed to have, it was a gift given to him, it was almost god-sent ( _Probably Aphrodite pestering Hera to influence the pregnancy a bit, just a hunch._ ), and by the world of mythology, it was magical for him. Charlie ( _A nickname given by Leo Valdez, something Annabeth despised._ ) was the golden apple of Percy's eyes. Like what he does with Annabeth and Sally, he worships the ground she crawls on, and the bed sheets she drools on ( _Annabeth would always mutter, "She got that from you," when they were tucking her in. It was hard to understand what she got from him because she was all-Annabeth_.).

It was seemingly perfect. _Too_ perfect for a demigod, and the Fates had cashed it in. It was more painful then, because it had caused too much damage, no one could have repaired it.

He was just on a quest with Leo, who found his way back with Calypso. He was on a leave from office and he just needed a break from the city life. He was just helping Leo find this flower. He was supposed to call once his plane touchdowns, he was supposed to be home by 8.

He really never called home.

Instead, while making herself a cup of tea, planning to stay up and wait for him, she received a call, the call that shook her world, that pierced through her very existence, the call that destroyed her, in more simpler terms. The call had, simply, caused her to momentarily forget about everything, the call had exposed her to the dirtiness of the world, the prejudice in the system. It had left her absolutely and completely vulnerable. The call broke her in every way possible.

His Achilles Heel was still as vulnerable as it was during the validity of his invincibility. His weak spot was still his humanity, nothing had ever changed—Annabeth was his humanity, nothing had changed. He was still vulnerable, so much more than the people who thought he was anything but. He was too exposed.

Leo had nothing, he was basically just a man with the power to summon and conjure up fire. He is no healer like the Apollo campers. He is not good with men, with living organisms. Like his siblings and his father, he is more suited with machines. With metal and gears, he could construct something mortals, gods, and demigods alike could marvel at for ages, but to be asked to try and heal a man, a living human? You could have been asking for a Medieval doctor, who in theory _and_ practice, has more chances of killing you than curing you.

Of course, he had nothing, no supplies because of their arrogance and of their foolishness. It was their own stupidity. In the end, Annabeth's constant remark, her ever-repeated sobriquet for her husband became ironic because it became his end, his downfall.

Leo brought him to a mortal hospital, lacking the needed tools and equipment for a chimera's poisoned sting. The doctors were baffled, the venom was spreading at a rate faster than a heartbeat. Camp was too far, there was no possible way of reaching Camp Half-Blood in time to save him.

But even in his darkest hours, Percy Jackson remained calm. For others, it may have been a cruel twist of fate ( _Or a cruel twist **by** the Fates, you never know!_ ), it might have been a tragedy so unbearable. To his family, it was both, but to him? It was different.

Call him selfish. He deserved rest. To Percy, it might have been his one shot at peace, at rest. His only shot of gaining the life he never did have, to get rid of the constant worrying. Fine, call him selfish, but never a coward who was afraid of getting hurt again because no matter how much he wanted to succumb into the light, into his well-deserved sleep, he fought. Because he had a family waiting for him.

But in the end, like what the doctors told Annabeth Jackson, there was just too much damage to repair. There was too little time. There was nothing they could do.

The sad part was that, the doctors couldn't really numb the pain he felt. Although he died calm, he died in the heat of _the_ pain he felt. Annabeth? Well, she cried _in_ pain.

How about me? Well, there is little I can say about how I felt. The situation, everything that happened had felt surreal. And there is little I can say now, and _honestly_? No one could really expect me to say much. I am, after all, just 10 years old. No one could expect me to understand, but I do. I can't help it, but I do see it, and I know.

But enough of your expectations of me. We're not here for that. Some of you did not travel thousands of miles to listen to a child rant about your _surprisingly_ low expectations of me. Right now, as of the moment, I am not that important. I do not own the spotlight, contrary to the light shining above me and the eyes gathered and focused on me.

Let's talk about my father. Let's talk about the man, the reason why we've gathered here. Let's talk about Percy Jackson, my father, your friend, my mom's best friend, my mom's husband, my mom's partner, my idol, my best friend, my. . .no, _our_ hero.

We've been together my whole life.

I mean, _duh_. He's my father. We've been living together for 10 years, a decade.

For others, it may have been enough, or it may have been a long time, a sufficient amount of time to get to know my parents, my father. For others, ten years is all they need, that they wouldn't take that long to fully know a person.

Well, if that's your mind set, then let me be the first person to tell you that you are wrong. Ten years, it's far from enough because no child can truly know their parents. No child can have count the years needed to truly know their parents. 10 years is not enough for me to know my father, nor is 3 years enough for my brother and my sister.

 _Hell_ , do excuse my French, even my mother, who knew him since they were _twelve_ , could not have possibly known everything about him because in life, in a marriage like their own, you learn tons of new stuff like new blackmail material, awesome prank ideas, new chaotic and disastrous recipes to try, new gift ideas, and new things to love, in general.

Because, when you're in love like them, you get to love them in a new way each and every day. You get to prove yourself and everything you stand for every minute, and you cherish each memory, new or old, in a new perspective, in a new view.

Dad, you are, without doubt, the world's undisputed, _sadly_ unknown, silent, selfless, seaweed-brained, loyal, twice-over world-saving hero.

You, though here only for a short amount of time, have taught me enough to know what is good from wrong, what is monster from demigod, from god to mortal, and from fish to meat. Grandpa Poseidon will _never_ forgive me for eating fish. Pardoned from death, perhaps, but to be exiled? Most likely.

You have taught me and filled me with all sorts of memories and lessons. People from the IRS could steal money from me, a hobo with a gun can rob me, a woman I trust could steal and break my heart, but of all the possessions I have, the time we had together, they can never take that away from me.

So know this, Dad, I will pass whatever we have together Dad—it could be our occasional duels with our cool _and_ awesome water powers to our full blown fights where I would say I hate you—because they're too young to remember, too young to understand. I'll tell them everything I know about you, every lesson from you, every memory and fact I know of you because it will bring them one step closer to you. Because it is the closest they will get to you, to _having_ you.

Dad, I will make sure to pass on everything I know of you. I will tell him every wrong you did so that he can right every single mistake, like forgetting the reservations for the anniversary date because, _by Zeus_ , if Will marries a woman like Mom and forgets about _the_ anniversary? I could only leave the details to your healthy and colorful imagination on what she can do, the damage to be done upon young, _poor_ William.

I will teach him on how to become you. Of course, I'll try to make him seem a bit less of an kelp-bogged guy, because that part of you is something I'd trade for Mom's genes. She's smarter and I'd like it, for him, to be smart, too.

Like what Grandma Sally did with you, I'll teach him to respect a woman. To be a gentleman, like you. To be on time, _unlike_ you. To be loyal, much like you. To be selfless, another characteristic I'd like my brother to have. To be a charmer, _I'd_ like to have that too. To remember important events, _again_ , unlike you. And, something I know you want, to be _better_ than you.

Dad, I'll be her protector. I will, _personally_ , scare off suitors with a shotgun while waiting for her in the patio. When no one goes to prom with her, as if that'll _ever_ happen, I will go with her. If some idiot kid decides to break her heart, I'll break his bones. And Dad? I'll make sure she'll _only_ date once she's in her late forties, because that's what you keep on telling Mom. I, in your stead, with be her knight in shining armor, I will make her feel your love.

Now, you, being a great demigod and all, being an amazing dad to me and Will and Charlotte and a perfect husband and best friend for Mom, are a tough act to follow. You're this difficult training sequence that I find almost impossible to do. These shoes you've left for me are so big, I mean even your hand-me-downs are big!

But with your help, and amazing, _godly-fast_ rate of growing up thanks to your godly-Poseidon genes, I'll fit in right in. I'll grow into those shoes, Dad. I'm going to take care of Will and Charlie and of Mom and of Grandma Sally. I am promising you that it will be fine, that we are going to continue to live by your principles, your _somewhat_ useful ideals, and your standards.

So I end this by thanking a supreme deity, _every_ God, known or unknown, every being, seen _or_ unseen, for giving me the chance to know the _complex_ , _irreplaceable_ , _extraordinary_ , unique _monster-slaying_ , a cool _bedtime storyteller_ , and an overall _rad_ dude. I am proud to say that I knew you, that I am able to call you my father and that I am able to see that your legacies and contributions won't be, will _never_ be eradicated from our minds, will never be extinguished from society, and will _always_ be treasured by men and women, mortals and godly dudes alike."


End file.
